by Diane Rapp
Krystal eased her feet to the icy floor and dashed to the nearest rug. “I need to buy a pair of slippers right away. Where did Donovan stow my clothes?” She opened the cabinet and felt overwhelmed by a profusion of fabrics and colors. “I guess someone supplied me with appropriate attire.”
Smiling, she fingered the clothes, appreciating the luxurious textures. Spacer clothes were functional with color indicating rank. She tossed her uniform aside. The fabric was thin, form fitting, and too revealing. “No wonder women stared at me with disgust. I looked naked compared to their volumes of fabric.”
Krystal chose a velvet dress from the closet. She pulled it over her head, and fastened the side before glancing into the mirror. “How wonderful!” She twirled like a little girl. The soft material billowed then settled into the contours of her figure. She found a pair of velvet slippers to match the dress. She pulled her hair back into a clip and surveyed the effect. The deep russet gown accented tan skin and shining hair. Her eyes sparkled with merriment. “When Donovan sees me in this, he may forget breakfast.”
She opened the heavy wooden door and waltzed down the spiral staircase. Her grand entrance went unnoticed. The group continued their heated discussion, and Krystal was forced to slip quietly into the room.
“I don’t want to be king! That is the point!” Donovan pounded his fist on the table.
“King Halder named you his heir. You must ratify his choice in the Tournament.” Bryant was trying to maintain his own temper.
“What kind of system allows a king to simply choose an heir? I’m a stranger here. I don’t understand your customs, your government, or your ideas. I’d make a lousy king!”
“King Halder has no other living kin.” Bryant almost choked on the words. “His family was murdered to gainsay their birthright.”
Krystal crawled onto the bench next to Donovan.
“In truth, you are the king’s nearest relative, and he has chosen you to succeed him. You must ratify his choice and win the Tournament,” Bryant repeated, his face red with anger.
Donovan said, “I’ll compete and do my damnedest to win, but I’ve spent too many years serving a government. I want no more duties heaped on my head! I deserve to be able to build a quiet life for myself and the children I hope to raise.” He stroked Krystal’s hand. “I’m honored by the King’s confidence, but can’t I relinquish it to someone else after winning?”
Bryant shook his head sadly. “No, if you fail to become king, you and your people will be in grave danger. They need the support of the king to survive.”
“Couldn’t I be the champion of someone who would welcome my people—you for instance. You’d be a better king, already well known as Halder’s man.”
Bryant sighed and slumped. “It doesn’t work that way. Even if I accepted the kingship, I do not qualify. It is written, the king must be a man of the blood, a descendant of the original barons of power.”
“Couldn’t things change?”
“We fought a war against such changes. The king swore before the court that you are a cousin. Therefore, you qualify as his heir. I doubt there is another legitimate candidate on Drako who would openly support spacers. If you win the Tournament, the Lords are duty-bound to accept you. It’s the only way to safeguard your people.”
“Duty!” Donovan scoffed.
“We are all tied to duty, I to my pledge and you to the protection of your people. Can’t you see? There is a future here. Reach out and grasp it!”
“I have no other choice.” Donovan looked somber. “I’ll compete and if God grants I should become king, I will accept that duty.”
“Good!” Bryant stood up. “We’ll begin right away. We’ll go the courtyard for your lessons, since we’ve no time to waste.” Bryant seemed infused with energy as he departed.
Krystal studied the table laden with tempting food but her appetite evaporated. “Donovan, you’ll make a good king,” she said, stroking his arm. “We’ll fit our lives into your duty. You can do many things to improve this world and make it better for our children.”
Donovan gazed into her eyes. “You know the right words to ease my soul. I see you’ve already taken to native dress. It’s very becoming.” He kissed her softly. “You’ll be the most beautiful queen ever seen on Drako.”
“Can’t you two ever stop?” Trenton grumbled, as he entered the room, his arms laden with weapons. “No time for smooching, it’s school time.”
Donovan chuckled, combing fingers through his ruddy hair. “You’re one to talk. Maggie must be pinched black and blue from your attentions by now.” Trenton raised his brows suggestively, and Donovan rose from the table to forestall more brash comments. “Later, my love,” he whispered to Krystal. He strolled from the room with a lilting step.
Krystal stood at the window overlooking the practice court. Bryant and Donovan were already slinging heavy steel at each other. She flinched at the sound of swords clanging, and wished Donovan could be spared this danger.
10 ~ Tournament for the Crown
Halder woke to the gentle rays of the sun warming his cheek and felt animated. Today the Tournament started! With a surge of energy resembling his old self, he tried lifting his body from the feather mattress. Fiery bolts of pain coursed through his bones and he sank back into the downy softness of the mattress. Sucking ragged breaths, he fought the pain, fought death.
A dark-haired boy appeared holding a cup. The boy placed the cup gently against Halder’s dry lips and he swallowed, grimacing as the liquid burned his raw throat.
“What’s your name boy?” Halder gasped.
“Justin, sire.”
“Well Justin, remind me to put our scheming doctor in irons. He’ll kill me with this vile brew.” Halder managed a wry smile at his own joke.
“Yes, sire.” Justin nodded, familiar with the ritual.
Halder closed his eyes. Warmth spread through his chest and a pleasant buzz filled his head. His breathing deepened. He murmured, “Perhaps we’ll incarcerate the doctor another day, the very day his potion fails me.”
“Yes, sire.” Justin helped him move to the cushioned chair and waited.
Halder nodded approval. “Fetch the doctor,” he whispered.
Justin glanced at the curtain, where he knew the doctor stood watching. “Yes, sire,” the boy said. “He’ll be here straight away.”
********
Alexander observed his patient, timepiece in hand. He measured the seconds it took the medicine to control the king’s pain—too long. The current dosage was barely enough but a stronger measure could kill the man. He shook his head and slipped the watch into his vest pocket.
Empathic sensitivity allowed him to pinpoint ailments and monitor progress without technology. Usually he endured the discomfort stoically, but this situation was different. Alex blocked the king’s pain and hardened himself to the task at hand. He stepped forward and touched Halder’s wrist. The king’s weak pulse, shallow breathing, and dry skin would worry any physician, yet Halder lived. What amazing willpower the man possessed.
Jotting notes in his book, Alex felt helpless and wished it would end. He hated himself for the wish. How could he treat this man without the benefit of Transfer? For spans he kept patients alive, ended pain, and changed the universe of medicine. Now, on this barbaric world, Alexander became an ordinary doctor once more. He forced himself to share Halder’s pain without any hope of success.
Why was Halder so determined to live? What drove him to prolong the senseless torture? Halder lifted his eyes and Alex saw determination. They said nothing to each other. Alex turned away from the king’s intense stare, aware that he must keep the man alive for a few more days. He retreated to a make-shift laboratory, and prepared a stronger formula to give the king more time.
*******
Halder smiled. The doctor’s fowl-tasting brew allowed moments to bask in the gentle rays of the sun. He let his mind drift to thoughts of happier days. A small pleasure…but it was almost over.
“Time for breakfast, sire,” Justin whispered as he gently touched the king’s arm.
The feathery touch seared Halder’s flesh like a hot firebrand. Worse, it returned Halder to reality. “Food!” he snarled. “What do I need with food?”
The boy waited.
“All right, all right! Doctor’s orders no doubt.”
Justin lifted the spoon and the king sipped the bland broth, a slow process that the boy performed with infinite patience. Gazing into Justin’s blue eyes, Halder saw compassion and love.
He flinched. I won’t allow feelings of love to dilute the anger. I need my anger to secure revenge! Halder pushed the spoon away. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be late.”
Justin looked confused, glancing at the curtain for instructions.
Alex said, “It’s all right, Justin. Go fetch the porters.”
“Do I need your permission to fart too?” Halder barked at the doctor.
“Yes, if you want to live long enough to do it again. Do you really feel strong enough to go to the Tournament?”
Halder grinned. “I’d crawl through hell to be there.”
“Yes.” The doctor fingered a new vial of medicine in his pocket. “I promise not to hamper your enjoyment of hell.”
“See that you don’t, it’s my only reason for living.”
“I know.”
“What do you know?” Halder peered at the doctor suspiciously and tightened his mental barriers. Can the doctor read my mind and discover the plan?
“Nothing, the porters are here.”
Servants carried Halder’s chair past fawning courtiers into the royal pavilion. Smiling and waving, Halder enjoyed seeing incredulous reactions to his presence. Superstitions ate at the courage of friends and enemies alike. He knew that rumors painted him a sorcerer or a demon.
Fear! Halder wielded it like a sword, but today fear was not his only weapon.
The pretense might be transparent to an observant eye. Clothes draped a skeletal frame that once bulged at the seams. His translucent skin was a pale shade of gray and deep lines etched his gaunt face. Few felt courageous enough to study the king, so he played out the drama undetected.
A woman, dressed in a diaphanous cloud of blue organza, glided confidently toward Halder.
“Angelina!” Halder gasped—his gaze transfixed by the vision. She mounted the platform and bowed graciously. “Have you risen from the grave?” he mumbled.
“Your grace?”
Krystal’s blue eyes shattered the illusion. Angelina’s eyes had been a brown highlighted with gold flecks, and her cheeks carried the blush of a wild summer rose.
“Krystal.” He nearly choked on the word and remembered Bryant’s idea. The masquerade was meant to rattle the crowd. Krystal wore the same blue dress Angelina wore to her last festival. Bryant did his job too well and the perfection of her image nearly sabotaged him. The pain of loss surged, feeding the anger that allowed him to clasp a fragile thread of sanity.
“Sit down, my dear,” Halder said. “You look just like my beloved wife in that dress, so beautiful. Thank you.”
“For a moment it made you unhappy.”
He tightened the seals on his mind. “No, you look perfect. Notice the reaction of the crowd. Clever of Bryant to initiate mental games before the contest begins.”
Krystal grinned. “He’s not finished yet. Prepare yourself for Donovan’s performance.”
Halder leaned forward, eager to view the next act of Bryant’s play. A traditional parade of contestants passed before the king, each man dressed in costumes representing their home province. Halder rewarded them with a curt nod and solemn demeanor.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd as Donovan approached. Dressed in his golden spacer uniform accented by a black silk cape, he looked regal, an imposing figure. Everyone recognized the king’s sword prominently hung at his waist, but it was almost expected. The sight of Donovan’s horse jolted onlookers and contestants alike.
“Tempest.” The name hissed through the crowd.
A sleek ebony stallion, Tempest was a birthday gift to the royal prince—a gift he did not live to see. Struck by illness on the day the horse arrived, the most superstitious believed the devil-horse responsible. What man had enough courage to ride the evil creature?
Halder gleefully rubbed his hands together. “Bryant is a genius!”
Krystal nodded. “He’ll be glad to hear you say it.”
Donovan saluted the king. As Halder grinned and returned the salute, Tempest burst into a demonstration of vile temper. The stallion reared—his taut muscles bunched under glistening black hide—and flashed his hooves near the king’s box. Donovan fought the beast. The horse strained against the bit with arched neck and wide nostrils. Golden hooves pawed the turf. He snorted and sidestepped toward the frightened assembly.
Like a young god, Donovan reined in the massive creature, forcing him back from panicky spectators. Tempest twirled, shaking and kicking to dislodge the man. As suddenly as his temper flared, Tempest yielded. Flicking his ears in submission, he whinnied. Donovan stroked the broad neck and grinned at the king as the crowd cheered.
Halder nodded approval as Bryant basked in the king’s pleasure.
The crowd hollered, “The king’s champion has arrived! He’s here to avenge the murders. A mighty sorcerer conjured him from the sky to come whip them lordlings. Jest look at him!”
Halder leaned toward Krystal and said, “Winning this contest takes more than skill in the ring. Bryant’s cunning scored the first blow. Stories about Donovan’s strength, courage, and skill will spread to the contestants. He tamed the devil-horse who tried to attack the king! He’s a good bet to win the Tournament.”
“How does the Tournament work?” Krystal asked breathlessly.
Halder pointed to the arenas, clearly visible from the king’s box. “Events run simultaneously. A smart contestant chooses events where he can score high points in the early rounds; points accumulate until contestants advance to the final rounds.”
“Donovan’s first contest is archery,” Krystal volunteered.
“Bryant claims that Donovan shoots like an expert.” Halder laughed. “That scoundrel always gives new students an impossible bow to pull. It’s usually a humbling experience, but Donovan pulled the bow easily, and had the temerity to choose that same bow as his own. Bryant says there’s little he can teach Donovan about archery.”
*******
In the arena Donovan strung the bow, taking pleasure in its tensile strength. He’d only seen a bow like this behind glass in a museum. He felt eager to use it. He watched the first contestant, a youth with dark curly hair, prepare to shoot. Standing erect, the youngster nocked an arrow, while holding a second against the bow in readiness. The gamekeeper released two birds and the young archer responded. Downing the first bird cleanly, he nocked the next shaft and shot at the second target. He was too slow. The second missile hit the fringes of the outstretched wing. The bird fluttered wildly, dislodging the shaft and diving into the branches of a tree to hide.
“Second target winged,” the judge shouted. “Score one of two.”
Donovan’s stomach lurched. He turned to Bryant and asked, “They fly two birds at once? I’ve never shot in a contest like this.”
“What?” Bryant sounded surprised. “All our shoots are done in this manner. You shot so confidently, I assumed—” Bryant looked downtrodden. “I’ve failed in my duty, sire.”
“Don’t abandon me now. Just show me how to hold multiple arrows.”
While the next contestant shot, Bryant tried to arrange Donovan’s fingers to hold an extra arrow against his bow. The unusual grip cost leverage and the bow wobbled. After a few attempts, Donovan said, “I can’t shoot like this. I’ll manage my own way.”
The second contestant shot both birds accurately. Donovan studied the flight of the birds, the wind, and the arrows while praying he could equal those shots. When it was time, Donovan stepped forward.
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He chose two arrows, nocked the first, and stuck the second into the soft ground next to his leg. The crowd tittered. Donovan nodded to the gamekeeper, took a deep breath, and slipped into speed time.
Donovan’s perception altered, the gamekeeper stood nearly motionless while the birds flapped slowly, beat after beat across the sky. Donovan pulled the bowstring and aimed, his military mind calculating trajectory, timing, and distance as he released the first shaft. The arrow inched forward as he bent to retrieve the second arrow.
Scanning the horizon, Donovan’s heart pounded. Where was the damned bird? He caught sight of it winging slowly to his right. His attention fixed on the slow target, he released the second arrow. Finished, Donovan exhaled and slipped back into real time.
*******
Krystal felt Donovan change to speed time. When the first arrow flew from his bow, she reacted. The crowd can’t see Donovan’s incredible speed; they must see what they expect. She projected an illusion. With her help, everyone watched Donovan move rapidly but in the range of human possibility. The second arrow jumped from Donovan’s bow in a heartbeat, but the crowd saw nothing abnormal. Both birds lay dead, cleanly shot as the crowd cheered.
The king shouted, “Donovan made the kill with ease.”
A servant handed Krystal a glass filled with sweet liquor. She sipped it gratefully, her hands shaking.
Halder asked, “What’s wrong my dear? You look pale.”
Krystal gazed into the king’s watery eyes. “It’s nothing of concern, sire. I got excited.”
Halder scrutinized her thoughtfully. “I remember well the excitement of battle and the tenderness of first love.” He leaned back and enjoyed the warm sun on his face. “You and Donovan are well matched. I’d love to meet your children.”
He reached over and placed his hand on Krystal’s. The hand felt icy cold. She said, “We hope to raise a whole brood.”